Mickelsson's Ghosts Read Free

futilely, and its emptily ferocious legend “Let my people go!”) Carter became thinner of voice every day, Reagan—in his dyed hair and make-up—more jokey. In such a world Mickelsson’s walking-stick, with its smooth, dark, glowing wood, silver-tipped, and its heavy silver handle in the shape of the head of a lioness, was comforting, a steadying force; or so he would tell himself, holding the cane to the light, admiring it one more time, up in his kitchen, or swinging it jauntily, firmly grasping the head as he walked dark streets, his broad hat cocked.
    One night, passing down a narrow, shabby, poorly lit street where he’d seldom walked before—dull houses, each with its enclosed or open or long-ago-screened-in, full-width porch, its light over the door (turned off by this hour), its one large or two small windows, its rusty porch-glider, fridge, potted plants—Mickelsson suddenly froze in his tracks, the hair on the back of his neck rising. Right in front of him on the sidewalk, barring his path, stood a large, pitchdark chunk of shadow—a dog, he realized after an instant: a black Doberman, or perhaps a Great Dane. It simply stood there, head level with Mickelsson’s waist, not growling but firmly blocking passage. Seconds fell away. Mickelsson could see no one to call to, no movement anywhere, though from somewhere not far off came the tinny noise of a TV.
    Now the dog did begin to growl: a low, uncertain rumble. Carefully, making no sudden movements, Mickelsson shifted the cane to both hands and raised it like a bat. And then, an instant before he knew he would do it, quick as a snake, he brought down the cane with all his might, aiming for the animal’s head. To his surprise—then horror—the dog did not leap back with the predictable lightning quickness of its kind, nor did it, as Mickelsson had expected, lunge forward to bite him. It simply went down the way cows had gone down at slaughtering time, when his father hit them between the horns with the eight-pound maul. Perhaps the dog was old, half blind, half deaf. In any case, down it went, almost without a sound—no snarl, just the crack of the canehead striking home, then the huff of escaping breath as the body struck the sidewalk. Mickelsson stared, the TV’s rootless harmonics suddenly loud in his ears. It was too dark to see well, but he sensed, if he did not see, the death tremor. He turned left and right, looking around in alarm at the nearby porches and windows. Miraculously, no one seemed to have witnessed the thing. He moved the tip of the cane toward the animal, thinking of poking it to make sure it was dead, but then resisted the impulse. He raised the cane, thinking of hurling it away into the shrubbery, but again changed his mind, imagining the dog leaping up at him as soon as he was weaponless. He looked around one last time—still no one—then tucked the cane under his arm and fled.
    Back in his apartment, with the door bolted, Mickelsson cleaned the head of the cane under the kitchen faucet with great care, though he could see no sign of hair or blood, then poured himself a drink and sat down with it at the kitchen table, swallowed half of the drink at once, and after that sat with his glasses off, his forehead on his fists, eyes narrowed, almost shut, trying to think what he should do. He would call the police if he were the ethicist he’d all his life claimed to be and thought himself; but that thought had hardly entered his mind before he pushed it away forever. Back in Providence, where he’d been well-to-do and respected, he’d have gone to the police at once; but in Providence he wouldn’t have killed the dog.
    It began to seem to him that when he’d first stood there, blocked by the thing on the sidewalk in front of him, a car had passed. Surely he was wrong: surely the lights would have shown him what kind of dog it was. No, then; there had definitely